Classic Poem

The summer meads are fair with daisy-snow,
White as the dove's wing, flawless as the foam
On the brown beaches where the breakers comb
When the long Trades their morning bugles blow;
And over all there is a golden glow,
For the sun sits ascendant in the dome;
And smoke-wreaths rise from many a cottage home
Where there is peace, and joy's full overflow.

This is our heritage, but what of those
Who crouch where Yser's sad, ensanguined tide
Winds with its sluggish crescents, toward the sea;
Where Termonde bells are silent, and the wide
And stricken leagues of Flemish land disclose
The ruthless wrong, the piteous agony!